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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461612">In the Pub</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colubrina/pseuds/Colubrina'>Colubrina</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dramione One Shots [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:55:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461612</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colubrina/pseuds/Colubrina</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Their argument started off mildly enough, but like so many other things, it escalated.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dramione One Shots [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1464850</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>148</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In the Pub</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The argument had started off mildly enough.  In fact, the whole evening started off with a veneer of civility.  Ron took the last chair at the table, and when Hermione came back from the bar, her hands full of drinks, she had to squeeze in next to Draco Malfoy on the bench the pub had decided made up in indestructibility what it lacked in comfort.  He wasn’t thrilled, but he moved over to make room because it was the only polite thing to do, and she said all the requisite things about how sorry she was and this place was too tight, and he was very kind to make room for her.  </p><p>It was a little too close for comfort even for people who liked one another.  For two people with a complicated history, it was miserable.  Her hair kept poking into his face, and their past kept poking into his conscience.  He’d been an utter shit at twelve, and not much better at sixteen.  But they were adults now.  They were adults who were out with mutual friends, and they could be polite and pleasant and, if that failed, they could each manage to ignore the other.  Which they did. Despite the way, their thighs pressed together.  Despite the way every time Hermione reached across the table, her breasts pushed into his arm.  Despite the smell of her perfume.</p><p>Draco finished his beer, had another one, and then a third.  And that’s when the squabble began.  He said something about school, and she sniffed and said it wasn’t as if he’d spent any time studying.  And that was simply not fair, because he’d been a near grind.  He’d <em>invented</em> spells for godsake.  There hadn’t exactly been a <em>How to Fix Your Broken Vanishing Cabinet</em> manual lying around.</p><p>“Oh, and that was such a good idea,” Hermione said.  Draco had to admire the sneer on her face.  He was a connoisseur of such, and she demonstrated true mastery of the art.  Her plump lip curled just the right amount.  Her clever chin tilted with disdain.  The only problem was she was right, and it had been a terrible idea, and he had nothing left to say.  But he couldn’t let her win the argument.  </p><p>“At least I didn’t send Umbridge off the centaurs,” he snapped.  It was a fairly pathetic comeback, but it was all he had.</p><p>“At least I didn’t join her little squad!”</p><p>“You were too busy kissing every teacher’s arse to have time for that.”</p><p>“Oh, so says the my-father-will-hear-about-this boy,” she said, turning the whiny complaint he’d made far too often into a taunt.  He cringed at the way she mimicked his adolescent voice.  She even added a crack.</p><p>“I think I’ll go get another drink,” Lavender said.  She nudged Ron and, not wholly oblivious, he joined her.</p><p>“A dance?” Pansy suggested to Harry, and the two of them fled.</p><p>“I need to piss,”  Greg said, and pushed his own chair back.  </p><p>Draco and Hermione were left alone, glaring. She leaned in closer. “You were a horror,” she said.</p><p>He wasn’t going to back down. “Oh, I know about Marietta,” he said.  “The scar on her face?  You aren’t a good person, face it.”</p><p>“At least I didn’t -.”</p><p>And she stopped.  All the animosity drained from her face, a near mirror of the way blood had drained from his.  The Mark on his arm itched. He swallowed, his throat bobbing.  “Right,” he said.  He inched his way out from the bench and stood up.  “Quite right.  I’ll be going.  Do tell the others I decided to head home, won’t you?”</p><p>He made it to the door, face held in tight control.  The street was busy, people passing by.  No one had looked at him twice in years but tonight it seemed as if every witch who passed leaned in to whisper to her friends.  <em>That’s Draco Malfoy.  He’s a Death Eater.</em></p><p>He walked, hands in his pockets, stride easy, around the corner to the alley.  A rat glanced at him, then decided he was no threat.  The garbage was more intersesting.  It returned to picking through discarded orange rinds and stale nuts.</p><p>That was where she found him.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”  The words seemed loud.  “I didn’t mean it.”</p><p> “You did,” he said.  He didn’t turn around.  The rat had found half a muffin and was carefully tearing off small chunks of wheat and blueberry to eat.  “And you were right, of course.”</p><p>“No.”  She came up closer and even in the alley he could smell her perfume.  It mixed in with the spilled beer and urine and self-loathing. She set her hand on his arm.  “You were coerced.”</p><p>“I wasn’t.”  He liked that lie.  The story of a child forced into taking the brand on his arm was much more pleasant than the nightmare truth. He’d held his arm out willingly.  He’d been proud.  Excited, even. “Don’t paint me into someone less culpable.”</p><p>“You were a child.”</p><p>“So were you.”  That was when the tear managed to escape.  She and all her little friends had been no older than him, and they’d managed to make the right choices.  God, he was despicable.  He’d been despicable then and, for all he didn’t toss slurs around anymore, he was no much better now.</p><p>She set a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want me to walk you home?”</p><p>It was four blocks and two sets of stairs. And it wasn’t as if he couldn’t get back to his flat easily.  It had only been three beers. He wasn’t staggering.  He was just stupid. </p><p>He opened her mouth to tell her no but, somehow, what came out was, “Please.”</p><p>She slid a hand into his, and he held onto it like a lifeline for all those four blocks.  For both sets of stairs.  He only dropped it to fumble for his keys.  “Do you want to come in?” he asked. It was an automatic courtesy.  She would say no, of course.  She’d made sure the drunk got home safely, and her responsibility was over.  Any sensible woman would go back to her friends and the bar. She’d shake herself and tell them it was all fine. </p><p>“Yes,” she said softly. </p><p>So he let her in.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally published on FFN in December of 2018.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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